outs greeted the ears of the closely packed mass at the entrance.

Robertson was standing close to Mr. Hanbury, whose face shone with happy
excitement. Just as they reached the entrance to the street, the crowd
outside suddenly started to run north in mad haste.

"This is the proudest day of my life as an American citizen!" said
Robertson to Hanbury. Hardly had he finished the sentence, when a
crashing sound like thunder rent the air and resounded down the whole
length of Broadway, as if the latter were a canon surrounded by
precipitous walls of rock.

"They're firing on the people," burst from thousands of lips in the
wildest indignation.

Some one shouted: "Pull out your revolvers!" and in response red sparks
flashed here and there in the crowd and the rattle of shots greeted the
troops marching up Broadway. The mob seemed to be made up largely of
Russians.

Just in front of Robertson and Gerald Hanbury a young woman, who had
been wounded by a stray shot, lay on the pavement screaming with pain
and tossing her arms wildly about.

"Three cheers for Mr. Hanbury!" came the loud cry once more from the
entrance. At this instant a big workman, apparently drunk, and dressed
only in shirt and trousers, stepped in front of the door, and swinging
the spoke of a large wheel in his right hand shouted: "Where's Mr.
Hanbury?" And some one shouted as in reply: "The blackguard has turned
three thousand workmen out on the streets to-day so that he can go
traveling with his millions." The workman yelled once more: "Where is
Mr. Hanbury?" Gerald moved forward a step and, looking the questioner
straight in the eye, said: "I'm Mr. Hanbury, what do you want?"

The workman glared at him with wild, bloodshot eyes and cried in a
fierce rage: "That's what I want," and quick as a flash the heavy spoke
descended on Hanbury's head. The terrific blow felled Gerald to the
ground, and he sank without uttering a sound beside the body of the
wounded woman lying at his feet.

Robertson flew at the drunken brute as he prepared for a second blow,
but some of the other laborers had already torn his weapon out of his
hand, and, as if in answer to this base murder, the troops discharged a
fresh volley only a hundred yards away, which was again received with
shots from dozens of revolvers.

Robertson felt a stinging pain in his left arm and, in a sudden access
of weakness, he leaned for support against the doorway. His senses left
him for a moment